Going Bovine

Page 97

Gonzo and I exchange glances.
“It’s true!” Balder insists. “They fell from the sky with their odd instruments, and we feared that Ragnarok was upon us.”
“Ragnarok.” Gonzo makes a face. “Is that a musical festival?”
“The end of the world in Norse mythology,” I say, remembering my mom’s lessons. “The doom of the gods.”
“They spoke a strange tongue, but their song was a charm against ill. While they played, peace reigned. Enemies stood as friends. The giants lay down in contentment. Even the Valkyries refused to choose the dead. We feasted. And then, the clouds opened once more. They were gone, leaving behind only the northern lights.”
The sky’s filling up with dark clouds. Time for an afternoon downpour. Cars flip on their headlights, bracing for the coming rain. Our rigged boom box flickers into a staticky symphony of pops, crackles, and occasional burps of words. With the precision of a code breaker, I turn the knob, listening for the sonar of life in the distance, happy when we get a sudden blurp of sound; it makes me feel like I’m moving toward something, that it’s only a signal tower away and getting stronger.
“Could we please find something else? This is torture,” Balder pleads.
“How do you feel about the Great Tremolo?” I ask.
“Is it static?”
“No, it’s a CD,” I say, feeling around on the front seat for the disc I burned.
Balder yawns. “Wonderful.”
Gonzo does the honors, and soon, the car’s thumping to the head-banging pleasure of Portuguese love songs on ukulele and recorder.
“What is this shit?” Gonzo asks, a smile tugging at his lips.
“The Great Tremolo. The master of love in any language.”
The Great Tremolo starts to sing in his high, shaky falsetto and that’s it. Gonzo is officially gone. He’s crying he’s laughing so hard, which of course makes me laugh, too. The Great Tremolo goes for a high note and we nearly piss our pants. Balder has chosen to ignore our immaturity. He’s stretched across the backseat with his eyes closed, probably taking a little gnome snooze.
“Dude, where did you find this?” Gonzo chokes out.
I wipe away tears. “Wait—turn it up. This is his big ukulele solo!”
Gonzo slaps his leg, chortling. “He’s tearing that uke up! Go, badass girly-singing man!”
“I bet the women throw their underwear,” I crack.
“I want to throw my underwear! Pull over so I can take it off!”
A rumble of thunder rolls over us. The first big splats of rain hit the windshield, a heavy one, two-three. Four. The Great Tremolo sings out from the rigged boom box.
“Hey, Gonz, what’s he saying?” I ask, catching my breath.
Gonzo snorts in disgust. “I don’t know, man, it’s Portuguese. I’m Mex-i-can?” he says, drawing it out. “This may come as a shock to you, pendejo, but not all brown people are the same.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I still wish I knew what he was saying.” And for the first time, I really do.
“Eu considerei a sua cara e sabia a felicidade,” Balder murmurs from the backseat, his eyes still closed. “I looked upon your face and knew happiness.”
Without further warning, the sky opens up and cries.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Of What Happens When We Take a Detour Through Hope (Georgia)
It’s a soaking rain, and I decide it’s better to pull off and wait it out rather than risk the Caddy’s mostly bald tires on the slick highway. A sign advertising a rest area blinks white and blue in the gloom. And just behind that is a little white sign that says HOPE, GEORGIA, TWO MILES. There’s a feather emblem next to it.
“Dude, why are we here?” Gonzo asks. “You know I was kidding about my underwear, right?”
“Just seems like a good place to wait out the rain,” I say. I’m not mentioning the feather. Maybe it’s the state mascot or something.
“Okay. I’m crashing. Wake me up if anything happens,” Gonzo says, joining Balder, who’s been snoring for the last half mile.
If I’m supposed to find something here, I can’t imagine what that could be. There’s not much to Hope. It’s a one-stoplight kind of town. They don’t even have a strip mall, which I think might actually be against the law. I drive slowly past an old clapboard Church of the Nazarene. A closed gas station with a tire yard next door. A couple of houses tucked away far off the road so all I can see of them is a snatch of white or a glimpse of brick. The road veers off to the left and becomes a narrow lane that runs past a dilapidated hardware store with a chipped sign: PARTS SOLD HERE—NEW, USED, NECESSARY. And that’s it. The street dead-ends at a guardrail and a wall of pine trees. There’s an old man sitting on the front porch of the hardware store, his hands on his knees. I pull over and ask him how to get back to the interstate.